A Dream, Within a Dream
by tsohg a ma i
Summary: What is real, and what is not? The answer is simple, without a thought. Dreams are dreamed, but children slumber—in worlds that storm, and worlds that thunder. What is real, and what is not? It's not as simple as you thought... [Rated M for themes]
1. A Dream, Within a Dream

**A Dream, Within A Dream**

If she had known it would be her last day on earth, she would have made better plans. She would have gone to see her friends, her family. Tell them she loved them. At least _called_. Done something amazing. Made the day _mean_ something. But she didn't… What did she do instead?

Spent her day off playing videogames until she felt like she was going to be sick.

Yes, she knew, it was disgusting. We're looking at eighteen straight hours of couch surfing, People. That's enough time for a person to leave on a plane from Chicago and arrive on the other side of the fucking _planet_ …

It's official. She was despicable and she hated herself.

She didn't usually do this kind of thing! It wasn't even semi-typical of her! Normally, she was quite careful with keeping all things in moderation—quoting by it, even, because that was just something she did. Philosophers, poetry, music, you name it, if it piqued her interest, she spread it around to all her friends and coworkers. Knowledge is meant to be shared, after all—well, maybe not _all_ knowledge…such as that of her secret bad habit.

She knew she had a problem. She was working on it. And actually making progress! She'd worked out a schedule, even! No more than an hour's worth of her time would be devoted to gaming each morning, and two, maybe three at night. She'd work on slowly reducing it by fifteen minute intervals until she successfully weaned herself from her addiction.

That all blew up in her face _spectacularly_ when Dragon Age Inquisition came out.

Months of work, completely blown, as if the Breach itself had suddenly erupted in her living room and sucked it all into the Fade. And if she were as technologically retarded as her aged grandmother, she might have actually believed it. Those _graphics_ —God, Maker, Creators, whoever the hell it was making this shit happen to her—she wanted to kiss them.

Wait. No. No she didn't. She wanted to _kill_ them.

How could they do this to her? It wasn't _fair_.

Because of her obsessive addiction problem, she was parked in front of the television for eighteen hours playing this stupidly terrible and _wonderful_ game and reveling in every minute of it until it was over and she felt like she was going to pass out. She was pretty sure there was a health warning the PS4 always flashed at her whenever she turned it on—something about seizures—but, as always, she ignored it, like the obsessive addicted idiot she was.

And _that_ was how she spent her last eighteen hours.

She then promptly passed out on her couch.

Later, she didn't know whether to curse herself into oblivion…or consider herself lucky.

* * *

It was a rude awakening, to say the least.

She wasn't even sure she _was_ awake, everything felt so clouded and surreal. The first thing she was aware of was someone gently shaking her shoulders, repeating someone's name fervently. She blinked her eyes open groggily to behold a middle-aged man looming over her where she lay on some sort of alter or…sepulcher slab, more-like. He had grizzly features, narrow, steel grey eyes and hair, along with a carefully trimmed beard. Idly, she noted that his ears looked oddly lumpy and misshapen.

His eyes were locked on hers, searching, as if looking for something within, and shined avidly as she blinked at him in utter bemusement. Finally, she slurred out, "You look…familiar."

She must have skimmed over the fact that her voice was an octave higher than normal—not to mention completely unfamiliar in the 'not mine' sort of sense.

" _Valeria_ …" the man breathed the name as if it were something sacred, reaching reverently to cup her cheek. "You've come back to me."

Everything was so confused and fuzzy then, she only registered a handful of his words. "Did I…go somewhere?"

"Somewhere far away," he replied, pulling her up gently—her bones felt like jelly—and embracing her. He wore long robes, she noticed, the voluminous sleeves of which felt strange and foreign brushing up against her skin and smelled of old books. "But _Adda_ has you now. I found you. I'll never let you go again, Sweet girl." He then murmured things in a strange, rythmic language she'd never heard before, but his tone sounded reassuring.

" _Adda_ …" She repeated musingly. Was that his name? Her eyes were unfocused, and everything seemed a little bit blurry. But as the man held her, she began to make out a rigid figure over his shoulder. Her vision became clearer as she concentrated a bit harder, blinking at the person standing sigil at the shadowy entryway—a dissent into some sort of crypt, she realized. He was unmistakable, and in her near drunken haze, she smiled at him vaguely, and mused, "This is a very…strange dream… Why are _you_ here?"

The figure didn't answer, his face carefully blank, and looking wordlessly to the man as if needing permission to speak. She frowned, sobriety quickly rushing up to meet her like the ground rushes to meet a suicide victim. It hit her all at once, the startling comprehension, staring into that painfully restrained expression of solemn submission, vibrant green eyes framed by stark white hair falling around sharp, tanned, angular features. He looked like he'd never smiled a day in his life. And somehow, she got the distinct feeling that she'd just made his day a hundred times worse.

"You're disturbing my daughter," the man holding her said sharply as he felt her body stiffen in response to the startling realizations she was beginning to come to. "Leave. I'll deal with you… _later_."

As the vividly familiar figure turned abruptly and began to ascend the stairs that led down to the crypt, a brief, but terrifying feeling of abandonment settled for an inexplicable reason in her chest, prompting her to object impulsively, "Wait!"

Mechanically, as if the word _physically_ hindered him, the figure halted before he could even set his bare foot on the first step. She swallowed thickly as another hundred realizations made themselves known like electrical pulses buzzing inside her whirling brain. She was extremely aware of the man with the lumpy ears and the strange robes and his proximity. Her brain also made the last lurching leap, landing sickeningly upon the one and only conclusion as to who this man could be.

' _Daughter_ ,' she exclaimed inside her head, close to full-blown panic. ' _He said_ _ **daughter**_ _!_ '

She thought quickly. Very, _very_ quickly. She knew right away there was only one way this could end, and it wasn't going to end _well_. She was screwed. This she knew for a fact. The only thing she could do was drag it out. She quickly made up a list of pros and cons of the situation, advantages and disadvantages (which greatly outweighed the advantages) and just as quickly came to a solid resolution. She was about to _lie her ass off_.

It was a good thing bullshit was part of her job.

In this case, a fair amount of acting would be required as well, she was afraid.

As it was, falling asleep sitting up really wasn't that hard to do in her situation. Her body felt like a useless sack of bones that hadn't moved in centuries. She was so, _so_ tired. All she wanted to do was lie back down, even if it was on a hard stone slab. "What's…wrong with me?" she finally dared to ask the man, hardly having to put on an act at all, her unfamiliar voice strained from disuse. "I feel…so weak. Everything's…confused."

"Don't fall asleep," the man commanded abruptly, holding her back at arm's length and giving her another gentle shake, glinting eyes taking her apart piece by piece as if examining for damages. "You've been asleep for far too long, Valeria. If you go back to the Fade now, you might not come back again."

"I…" she admitted another truth, her heart skipping a beat when she contemplated the existence of the aforementioned 'Fade,' "don't remember…anything."

The man froze, his eyes darting back up to bore into her own as if something monumental had just occurred to him. His eyes then flashed briefly to the slimly built figure, at the foot of the stairs, still waiting there frozen as she had compulsively commanded with his back turned to them. The bearded man then examined her closely again and she tensed inwardly, wondering if he'd see through her ploy. Finally, he said softly, caressing her cheek, "I did not foresee this…" He seemed as if he were thinking aloud, manically almost, his harsh lined face slowly shifting as ill conclusions dawned on him. "Somniari accounts have mentioned the distortion of time within the Fade, but I had not taken into consideration…" He trailed off, closing his eyes, frown lines appearing between his brows. When he opened them again, he asked her, "…Valeria, how long has it been for you?"

Focusing on his words critically, she asked another question in return, "…Is that my name?" She felt a stirring of remorse at his progressively crumbling countenance, but soldiered on and asked, "Are you…my father? Your face is…familiar." The guilt really did stab at her, when she saw his eyes glass over with unshed tears. "Please…don't cry." No matter _who_ she highly suspected this man's identity was, she was still essentially telling someone's father that his obviously well-beloved daughter didn't remember a _thing_ about him. Well…she _did_ , technically.

Just not anything _good_.

The man merely drew her into another embrace, tighter this time as he said in her ear, "My precious child, I have spent the better part of three _years_ trying to keep you alive—sacrificed well over a _hundred_ slaves for you—" Her stomach turned over sickly at this fact. Over a _hundred_? The statement echoed in her mind in harsh relief upon a blood red background. "—What matters is that you've returned to me, _at last_ … You're safe now." He paused, pulling back to brush threads of unfamiliar midnight-black hair away from her bewildered face. "I will _never_ let you go again."

It seemed to have been meant as a conciliatory gesture, but somehow, knowing what she knew about this man, it came off as the complete opposite. The chilling feeling of _intent_ behind that statement made her want to shrivel up inside. And as she spotted the dismal, green-eyed stare over the adamant man's shoulder aimed at her from the narrow figure at the foot of the stairs, the feeling intensified tenfold.

If the Magister Danarius made a promise like that, you'd have to be a fool not to believe him.

* * *

Valeria—because that was her name everyone called her by—was in the midst of an extremely tedious rehabilitation phase. Apparently three years of next to no movement—which she still had not been informed of the reasons behind—really takes a toll on the body; her muscle mass had degenerated down to about zero percent. She needed assistance to do _anything_. It was…humiliating.

But the alternative was revolting.

Almost immediately, her… ' _Father'_ …had proposed a 'simple' solution to the task of restoring her to full-functioning capacity.

"We will simply bleed another. It is of no consequence," he suggested in such a flippant tone. "I have worked tirelessly, and will continue to go to _any_ expense to ensure your health. One more sacrifice in the large scheme of things is nothing if it will serve as a means to the end of your illness."

As he was walking ahead of them, Valeria leaning heavily on the ostensibly mute Fenris' arm while he helped her walk precariously down the dark halls of the mansion—as if that wasn't unnerving and implausible in and of itself—Danarius didn't see the look of pure shock and horror flash across her face. However, her personal living crutch had _ample_ opportunity to analyze her clearly visible reaction. She shot a quick look of apprehension at the elf— _elf!_ —before quickly and loudly voicing her objection, " _No!_ "

' _Keep in character, keep in character_ —' she chanted inwardly, then added scathingly, ' _—who conveniently wasn't mentioned in-game! Those fuckers!_ ' She cursed frantically to herself a moment longer, scrounging for some kind of justification for her vehement refusal as Danarius turned to look at her incredulously. Finally, she ventured, ' _Somehow, I just can't picture the daughter of Danarius being exactly what you would call "_ _ **charitable**_ _"…_ '

Squaring her jaw, she decided on 'stubbornly defiant, arrogant, and proud to a fault' but cringed inwardly, as this wasn't going to be easy… Making a show of letting out a huge puff of indignation, she roughly shoved away Fenris' assistance— _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't fist-kill me_ —causing the elf to stumble back a bit in surprise at her unexpected surge of strength that was gone just about as soon as it came. Without Fenris' help, she dropped to her knees as if invisible puppet strings above her had just simply been… _snipped_. She gritted her teeth in pain as her knees slammed into the floor with an audible _bang_ , sending a trembling through her frail bones.

Both men rushed forward, Danarius with a cry of alarm, but Fenris got to her first, attempting to haul her back to her feet, but she slapped his gauntleted hands away from her snapping scathingly at him, "Don't _touch_ me, Slave!"

Her stomach felt sick as he _flinched_ away from her looking thoroughly stricken. He took an unsure step back from her, his expressive eyes darting from her to Danarius rather helplessly. "Master, I—"

"Silence," Danarius coldly cut off whatever he was about to say with a derisive flick of his fingers—as if he were some kind of unruly _pet_. He then moved towards Velaria smoothly with exaggerated movements she thought were supposed to calm her—as if she were some sort of dangerous, wounded creature.

She hissed at him as he reached out a hand towards her, and exclaimed, "I don't need _anyone's_ help! No slaves! I can do it by myself! Let me be!"

Briefly, the magister entertained a rather condescending smile at her antics, but withdrew his offered hand as she had stipulated. "I only wish to assist you, Dearest One. If Fenris scares you, _I_ will help you to the dining room."

She frowned at him defiantly—the challenge overshadowing any remnants of her act—reaching out deliberately towards the wall where she clung with her shaky fingers, slowly, painstakingly clawing her way to her feet using it as support. She stood before him boldly, chin raised with true pride and a mild sneer. "He's not scary. I'm not afraid of anything."

Danarius observed her display curiously before letting out a silky chuckle, shaking his head slightly as if at fond memories. "Of course not. You were named for bravery, after all—your mother's idea—after Archon Valerius. She was deeply enamored with history when you were born."

She let out a flippant sniff—though the subject matter he spoke of was actually quite intriguing to her true-information-hoarding-self—feigning disinterest. Slowly, but steadily, she began to plod forward, hands constantly clinging to the stone wall for leverage and support. She scoffed, "I _definitely_ don't remember that…"

"I wouldn't expect you to. But these things have a way of bouncing back, I've found…" he assured her confidently, eying her progress with watchful eyes. "You'll be back to trying to burn Fenris' hair off before you know it."

' _I did_ _ **what**_ _now?_ ' She whirled her head around to eye the subdued elf critically. The stark imagery of his head on fire sent a wave of panic thrumming through her, and for a moment, she actually had to check to see him perfectly unharmed to clear the grotesque image from her mind. He was…different to how she had imagined. However, she considered his lowered eyes and defeated posture thoughtfully for a moment and came to another one of her startling, gut punching conclusions.

' _He's still a_ _ **slave**_ _, you Idiot—directly under Danarius' thumb,_ ' a scathing voice inside her head hissed at her. ' _What else would you expect? Snarky commentary on the tyranny of mages and Broody wisecracks? Hell, he hasn't even_ _ **become**_ _that person yet!_ _ **That**_ _Fenris had over three years outside the Imperium plus his time with the Fog Warriors to grow—is he even in the right state of mind to see that all of this is_ _ **wrong**_ _?_ '

' _No_ ,' she realized with a dawning feeling of horror in her gut as he dared to peek up at her, feeling her scrutinizing gaze on his person. ' _He most certainly is not._ '

And for the first time, she really wondered what the hell she was expecting to happen. Tell Fenris all about her misplacement into the body of his master's daughter, and as soon as Danarius' back was turned they'd run off into the sunset together in search of a way to get her back home? For one thing, in what reality would he even _want_ to help her? Fenris was never characterized as a _hero_ ; saving damsels in distress was Hawke's thing. For another, she could tell just by looking at him that he was still deeply indoctrinated into the mindset of a slave! In other words, he didn't think for himself! _Danarius_ did all his thinking for him! The minute she said anything to him in confidence, his slave programing would kick in, and he'd go straight to report to his master. Hell, he fucking _killed_ every single Fog Warrior he'd been living with for _months_ , that he'd admired, and even felt _fondness_ for—just because Danarius came back and gave him an order!

That begged the question of what exactly he could do to _her_ …

She swallowed thickly and almost fell to her knees again as panic and dread welled up inside her chest, screaming inside. The final recognition that she was a stranger in a strange land—enemy territory—where absolutely no one could or _would_ help her—it almost bowled her over like a wrecking ball. She was _alone_. And if she wanted to live, no one could know. No one. Not even someone her game-addled mind associated with friendship—safety. He was the opposite. But besides Danarius—and the cold comfort _that_ granted—he was the only familiar face here. And she _clung_ to familiarity, so much like the cold stone wall her fingers clutched at. It was the only thing supporting her…the only thing stopping her from _drowning_.

"You can stop looking so _butt-hurt_ now—I'm not angry with you," she finally shot over her shoulder at him in a carefully controlled voice, trying her best to sound casual and callous, adding in a softer mumble, "You act as if someone's just _died_ , or killed your puppy, or maybe…"

For some reason, Danarius found something about this statement positively _hilarious_ , bursting out in uproarious laughter that echoed down the hall and caused Fenris to recoil ever-so-slightly away from him with a micro-expression of disgust on his face—one which I did _not_ fail to notice—before it disappeared as if it had never been there at all.

"Yes," the magister chuckled brightly, an unsettlingly malignant glint to his chilly eyes. "He does tend to act like a kicked _dog_ at times, I've noticed. Perhaps it tugs at fond old memories? The two of you did so _loathe_ each other, after all… It was quite amusing, really." I blinked at him in confusion, at which point he elaborated, "Fenris is my bodyguard. You were so upset when I had him appointed, as, naturally, he went with me everywhere. You assumed that I desired his company more than yours, I suspect, and grew quite jealous… It was the same when I acquired my apprentice." He smiled fondly at her. "Even bedridden, you could still manage to find a way to ruin Hadrianna's day without even having to lift a finger. You can be such a vindictive little creature at times, Valeria…"

"Am I?" she questioned airily, eying the Magister blankly. "I wouldn't know."

"All in good time." He patted her cheek familiarly, still walking beside her at the snail's pace she was making, but looking down the hall curiously as a clang sounded somewhere ahead near the kitchens. Distractedly, he told her, "Fenris happens to have _intimate_ knowledge regarding the subject. I'm sure he can regal you with a myriad of sordid tales on your childhood misadventures. Entertain her, for a moment, Little Wolf. I must sort this mess…"

And with that, he walked brusquely off down the hall at a pace she couldn't hope to meet at the rate she was going, intent on a slave-girl who froze in horror at the sight of him before darting back into the kitchens…leaving her alone with the other one.

She waited until he was out of sight before turning her stare back on Fenris, whose eyes were fixed upon a single point on the floor in front of him. Before she could stop herself, she whispered wretchedly, "…Did I _really_ set your hair on fire?"

She watched him visibly hesitate a moment before answering without looking at her, "You _tried_."

She frowned, not liking the sound of it, even if he didn't end up running around with his head on fire… She eyed him reproachfully. "Then he's right. You must really hate me…"

At this, his head snapped up sharply, his eyes full of what seemed to be alarm, then…confusion. Then he recited as if by rote, "Of course not, Mistress."

" _Don't_ call me that," she bit out impulsively, realizing belatedly how that sounded, and stammering, "Just…just don't, okay?"

He seemed as if he were about to say something, but changed his mind and shook his head dismally. "Master will be displeased with me."

"Then don't do it _in front of him_ ," she snapped scathingly, but jumped slightly at the sound of her own voice around the same time Fenris flinched. She still wasn't used to how waspish it could sound. She worked on softening her tone, finding some difficulty, but working around it, "Listen…when it's just you and me, it doesn't matter. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, will it?"

This was a test. She analyzed his reaction closely.

He cast a paranoid glance down the hall as if Danarius would suddenly appear down any of the side corridors at any given moment and swoop down on him. But there was nothing. Not even a sound. Finally, in an action that made her freeze involuntarily as he stooped his head towards her into her personal bubble, eyes boring into hers in painful earnest, he whispered, "What would you have me call you?"

"A-anything but that," she stammered out nervously—he was too real, too in her face. "I don't care. Just…" She blurted out the first thing that came to mind, anything to get him to stop staring at her with those eyes, "Val—or something—whatever you like. No more of this 'mistress this, mistress that' bull shit. Got it?"

She hadn't meant to give him her _real_ nickname. Come to think of it, it was probably a good thing Valeri and Valeria were only off by one letter… Come to think of it again that was really _weird_. What the hell was with that?

She shook her head of the confusing thoughts, and said, "It doesn't matter. Just…" She gritted her teeth as her knees gave a shudder and she bit out quickly, "Do me a favor and grab my hand before I fall on my stupid face."

He hesitated a second, but she didn't exactly have time for that, or nerves—as her legs were nearly void of them—so just grabbed his hand impatiently and leaned on him again, stumbling and nearly knocking him over, to which he muttered what sounded like a pretty nasty curse in Tevene under his breath; she supposed it was good that some things never seemed to change…

"Sorry," she apologized. "My legs seem to have decided I am unfit to rule them. I guess that's karma for you…" she muttered the last under her breath.

"I was under the impression you did not desire any assistance from slaves," he quoted her somewhat dryly.

She frowned heavily as he helped her walk, regardless. Finally, she told him lowly, adamantly, "I don't want anyone else to _die_ for me." At his incredulous stare, she hissed, "Tell me how _you_ would feel if you woke up one day and found out over a hundred people had to die in order for you to actually _do_ that."

"I…" he hesitated. That damned look—like he was about to say something, but he _hesitated_. Then he said, "…I don't know."

"It feels like _shit_ , that's what it feels like," she elaborated for him bluntly, looking ahead and cursing the ridiculously long hallways and her wobbly legs. "I don't recommend it." Finally, she nailed the coffin shut. "…He should have just let me _die_."

Silence stretched between them afterwards. Fenris seemed unwilling to comment; she thought it might be because he secretly agreed. Her lips twitched into a bitter smile at that thought. He really did hate her. She couldn't exactly say it was surprising. He was still Fenris, after all—even if he wasn't _her_ Fenris. Whoever that even _was_.

Was any of it even _real_?

The thought hit her with a hollow pang. What if everything…all of her life was just some—some _dream_? Trapped in the Fade… She swallowed thickly as the possibilities whirled like a tornado, clamoring around inside her head. But then, what was that knowledge based upon? She needed…she needed to know more.

"You're different," Fenris suddenly spoke from beside her, eying her closely. "Changed."

For a moment, she felt panicked…but then, couldn't exactly bring herself to care. She just shrugged. "People change. What did you expect? According to ' _Adda_ ,' time was distorted enough in the fade that I forgot my own _name_ …" She mused, "Exactly how long does it take to _do_ that?" She sighed at his non answer. "About enough time to become an entirely different person, apparently… I wonder how old I actually am. Mentally at any rate…" Her nose crinkled in displeasure at the thought.

After a moment of what seemed to be heavy deliberation, Fenris confessed to her quietly, "I don't remember anything about my life before these markings."

That's right. She almost forgot about that, ironically enough. She turned to look at him ponderingly. "Nothing? And you haven't remembered anything up 'til now either?"

"…Flashes, sometimes. In dreams," he confessed. "I never remember them for long after waking."

"There's a simple solution to that," she smiled. "Just get a journal, and when you wake up, write everything down really, really quickly before you for—" She paused as she took in the very deliberate look he was giving her. Then it hit her. "Oh. You can't read."

Then, she had a spontaneous epiphany, and at this point, she'd had so many of those recently that something in her _cracked_ and she just had to start laughing.

"Is that funny?" She could tell he was barely holding back a deeply suppressed temper.

"No," she laughed. "No, it's really not. There's nothing funny about it at all actually." But still, she laughed, and covered her face with the hand that was not holding onto him for balance in attempt to stifle it, to no avail. "It's just—hahaha—I just realized something."

"And what is that?" he grated out.

She let out another hysterical giggle, then confessed cheerfully, "I can't read either!"

She couldn't stop laughing—not even when Danarius returned from terrorizing the kitchen staff or whatever the hell it was that he did for fun and demanded to know what had happened. She thought she might finally be having that mental breakdown, right in front of enemies number one and two, and she could honestly care less. She'd lost it. Just completely lost it. She was crying too, she was sure—crying and laughing at the same time. And she honestly didn't know whether the tears were happy or sad, or the laughter bitter, hysterical, or maybe just downright tickled at the irony. Maybe it was all of it.

She couldn't _read_.

Of course she could read English, and still remembered some Latin she'd taken in High School—if any of it even existed outside of the Fade. She supposed it didn't matter, really. She remembered it. It was real to _her_. And that was better than what she was dealing with now. The only problem? Thedas didn't use English, or Latin. They used Common, mostly—twisting, alien runes, created and developed by dwarves for the soul purpose of having a common written language they could trade with everyone in. Hence the name. Which brings us back to the problem.

 _Val couldn't read_.

Somehow, for someone who spent half of her life—or even longer now, she suspected—with her nose buried in books, not knowing how to read was like the straw that broke the camel's back. Take away everything she thought she knew and turn it on its head? Okay, she could work with that. _Barely_ —but she thought she'd been doing a pretty good job considering the circumstances. She'd been coping in the only way she knew how. But then this.

Oh, and that was just scratching the surface.

 _"Adda—"_ she sobbed uncontrollably, clutching at her fake father's robes. Strangely, he was starting to seem less fake the more she realized she needed him. _"Adda,_ I c-can't read—can't write. N-no more books. No more stories. Oh, god, _Adda—"_ She sucked in a shuddering breath as the next life-shattering thing hit her. "Magic! There's n-nothing! I—I c-can't remem-mem-ber! Oh, god—W-what do I do? W-what if I really _do_ set Fenris on f-f-fire?"

At that point, she became completely inconsolable.

Which, in retrospect, was completely ridiculous. _She_ was ridiculous—and selfish—and ridiculous—the entire _situation_ was ridiculous. On the other hand, no—it was completely justified.

Because what if Valeri and Valeria were never two people at all?

* * *

 **Okay, so I know this is a really terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad thing to do.**

 **But I had to do it anyway. Ugh! It wouldn't leave me alone!**

 **I'm afraid the characters are _way_ OOC, but I think the circumstances warrant some OOCness. Fenris is still a semi-brainwashed slave, and Danarius apparently spawned without anybody knowing about it. They eventually level out once the plot gets kicked into action. You'll see if everything goes as planned on my end. Which—who am I kidding?** **—it probably won't. But I'm going to try it anyway.**

 **THINGS PROBABLY SEEM CONFUSING RIGHT NOW, BUT THEY _WILL_ MAKE SENSE IN THE END, I PROMISE!**

 **Side note: _Adda_ is a corruption of _Atta_ which is Latin-ish for Father, or Daddy, or whatever it is you call your paternal gene-giver. Full credit goes to Google Translate and more-so to OrilleD in her story Kindred** **—because she came up with it first.**

 **Let me know what you think, or I'm going to end up crying myself to sleep tonight.**


	2. Invictus: The Unconquerable

**Invictus: The Unconquerable**

The next several weeks were…difficult for Val.

The constant apprehensive feeling of paranoia had faded somewhat, leaving her feeling relatively secure in the assumption that nobody would be sneaking in through her window at night to try and assassinate her. This wasn't Antiva, after all. But it _was_ Minrathous—and maybe that was worse. But the city itself? Well, to say it was impressive would be putting it lightly. The city possessed a dark sort of beauty, its spires, its towers, its domed roofs, and shadowed, romantic alcoves… It was ancient, and many jet stone buildings were crumbling from age, some even held in suspended animation by powerful magics to keep them intact. There were many windows of red stained glass, especially at the Argent Spire, giving everything a rather sinister, but alluring, ambient glow. Red, and black were the colors of Minrathous—and of course its green jewel, the Grand Proving Arena, with its hanging gardens and terraces… But if for a moment you stopped looking up at the towering buildings and majesty of it all, and took the time to look down…well, there was a certain majesty in how sprawling the slums had become as well.

Minrathous was decaying slowly away from the inside.

Denarius' home was located in a very old, very well-to-do part of the city, and towered over the rest of the sprawling, guilded estates in the neighborhood. Literally. A crumbling tower that was no longer in use loomed over the rest of the stately manor. The slaves Val spoke to and habitually had to beg directions through the labyrinth of halls told her it was unsafe to go up there—the last who tried, having fallen from the top. Another said it was intentional, not due to precarious architecture… She really didn't want to think about that.

She awoke most every morning to the drifting dust motes illuminated by the thin cracks of daylight that managed to slip through the heavy velvet curtains that kept her quarters veiled perpetually in dim light…and simply lay awake in her intricately carved, too soft, four-poster bed, draped with wine red hangings with a face of utter apathy. She hated this room—grand though it may be, with its pretty gilded wardrobe filled with the latest fashions and beautiful vanity filled with cosmetics and exotic oils and fragrances from all over Thedas; no matter how much she squeezed that pouf for the overly expensive overpoweringly sweet Orlesian perfume, squirting it into every corner and orifice, the bedroom persisted to stink of something stale, and old sickness that seemed to be seeped, permeating into everything always.

It was no wonder that the Magister's daughter would often be found snoozing in the early morning, propped up in a bay window, head lolling against the stain glass where she'd fallen asleep the previous night with a child's book in her lap. A slave would awake her with timid smiles, and she'd slowly open her eyes, smile back and greet them ' _Avanna!_ ' in cheerful Tevene. She'd then proceed to ask how the day was progressing and what was for breakfast, accompanying the slave babbling in broken Tevene all the way back to the kitchens where she would take her morning meal to spare the staff the extra effort of having to lay out a table-set for her. She liked it better that way, having always liked cooking. She taught Amedia how to make French toast the way her grandmother had always made just right back in the…

In the Fade.

The thought haunted her every time it crossed her mind, reminding her repeatedly of what she'd lost, emphasizing the nauseating feeling of everything turning sideways—flip-flopped—like she was constantly losing sense of where she was. It was a surreal feeling, and she had developed a bad habit of having to pinch herself to remind her that it was all real. Really real. Still, it was probably the most difficult thing Val had to deal with. Not relearning how to read, or speak her mother tongue, nor even the agonizingly boring lessons on practical beginner magics her father had assigned a private tutor for—but keeping her grasp on the difference between what was real, and what was not.

Her heart ached in her chest. Homesickness was like a constant tightness that made her want to hide in a hole and weep pitifully for her friends to come and save her from this strange, cruel place...if they had even been her friends at all. Were they all just spirits wearing human masks? Every last one?

She would often sit solemnly upon the spiral stone steps up to the broken tower where no one ever went and just think for hours, going through all she knew, as far back as she could remember. Flashes of a far away childhood plagued her as she recalled the warm touch of her mother's hand, her father's holding onto the other, and remembered laughing joyously as they swung her between them. But their faces were not those of Danarius or the severe woman in the unsmiling portrait hung in the study. Were they spirits too?

She decided it didn't matter. She loved them, and she wanted to see them again so she could go home and cry, and tell her grandmother she loved her, and take her kid brother out to the movies, and... Oh she missed them. She missed them so much it was a constant pang—a perpetual black cloud over her head... But she could not allow anyone to see her sadness. She may have no longer been posing as an intruder in someone else's body, and the thought that Danarius would kill her if he found out was almost ludicrous now. But something told her that if she revealed the events that took place during her sojourn into the beyond, that she had found a home there, that she had been happier?

She didn't think it would be a welcome revelation.

Not to mention, she still needed to discern whether or not the knowledge of events she'd inadvertently picked up there were false or accurate. Only...she had no idea where to even begin... She knew that the Blight in Ferelden happened in 9:30, but she'd yet to discern what year it was... Perhaps the first step was to correct that.

But did she really want to know?

Suppose the Blight had yet to start? If she warned someone ahead of time, could she save lives? Or would she merely land herself in a heap of trouble? After all, if the stubborn dog-lords of Ferelden refused help from Orlais, why in the seven hells would they accept help from or take the word of a crazy magister's daughter from Tevinter?

Again, she didn't even know what was fake and what was real anymore.

Besides, she had no business helping others if she couldn't even help herself. She still felt like a stranger in her own home—she had a strong feeling Danarius' household would _never_ feel like home. There were slaves _everywhere_ , and though she was never anything but humane to them, it still didn't seem like enough. The fact that she could do nothing for them other than be the 'Kind and Lovely Mistress,' as they called her, made her feel more than a little inadequate. If she wanted to do anything…

First, she needed to focus on getting well again—which was the easy part, really. She was more than well fed, spending a good part of her time in the kitchens, speaking to the slaves. She wasn't normally so talkative, but it served a purpose. A couple of weeks after her…'awakening' such as it was, she'd commanded the entire household to avoid speaking to her in Common at all costs; easy enough, considering most of the slaves couldn't speak a word of it anyhow. She remembered distinctly that immersion was one of the best ways of learning a language, or _re_ learning, in her case. It didn't make it any easier, but she learned quickly, and her teachers were quite kind and enthusiastic.

Those who were slaves at any rate; the tutors her dearest father assigned to her were awful, not to mention condescending, self-righteous, bastards, and she hated them.

As for the magister, she'd seen hardly hide nor hair of him, or Fenris, since her first days post-awakening. They were gone on some trip or other which she hadn't even been informed of until _after_ they left. Somewhat annoyed, she wondered if this was a thing. In any case, she didn't like not knowing where Danarius was. Dangerous people tended to… _swoop_ down on you when you least expected it, and, as we all know, swooping is _bad_.

And so she was relieved when she got a letter. It was written in common, but the content was all in Tevene. It took her a day and a half just to translate it, and was, roughly speaking, thus:

 _My dearest Valeria,_

 _I do not know when this will reach you—I'll admit, it was an afterthought—but it is my greatest wish that it finds you in much better health and spirits. I apologize for the abrupt departure, but there was some urgent business that I needed to take care of in Quarinus. You were so frail, elsewise I would have taken you with me. You would like it here. The gardens are overflowing with flowers of all shapes and colors. You always loved the gardens._

 _After your accident, I saw ours burnt to the ground. I'll have to find someone who can commission another—better than the last. A symbolic gesture, perhaps? You are like a budding rose that would not bloom. Now you will finally have that chance. When I return, if your health allows, I will have Fenris take you to the Grand Proving Grounds. The gardens there are famous throughout all of Thedas. Surely you would remember them if you saw them._

 _All of my love,_

 _Your Father – to return on All Soul's Eve_

All Soul's Eve. _All Soul's Eve_? That gave her…less than two days! She—she had to prepare. She was wary of the Magister and didn't want to appear weak when he was around. It made her frown, but she would have to distance herself from the friendships she'd been forging in the kitchens. She needed to act strong, and aloof. Perhaps if she proved she was able to act in the expected manner of a noblewoman of Minrathous, Danarius would call off the etiquette teacher; she hated _her_ the most.

And there was one last thing she needed to do—the most _important_ thing, maybe.

She'd tried to talk herself out of it. It was probably a really, really bad idea, but it needed to be done. She couldn't leave it alone, and she couldn't stop thinking about it. And so the next morning, when Helanna, her handmaid, was brushing out her _extremely_ long locks of dark hair—apparently it hadn't been cut in three years—she carefully constructed a sentence in Tevene and asked with careful pronunciation, "I was wondering if anyone might escort me to the marketplace today. There was something I wanted to buy."

Helanna, clearly nonplussed by the odd request—Val had been too anxious, too nervous to take more than ten steps outside the mansion since her awakening—paused in her ritual combing and stared at the young woman in trepidation. "But, Mistress…" she murmured hesitantly, as if whatever she was about to say would not make Val happy. "Are you sure you're well enough for an outing? One of us can go in your stead and—"

"It's a book," Val interrupted gently with a small, sympathetic smile. Helanna's eyes widened slightly in understanding; slaves couldn't read. Then Val shrugged cheerfully, changing the subject, "Besides, a bit of a walk couldn't hurt, right? I need the exercise if I'm ever going to have a hope of getting stronger."

Helanna frowned heavily, her eyes lowered either in thought or in shame—Val couldn't tell. But then the slave looked up almost tearfully and spoke, "M-Mistress, if—if the magister took my blood, you would be well again already, wouldn't you?"

Val stared at her in shock, for a moment, shook her head, then clasped Helanna's hands tightly. "I will not have the blood of another person on my hands just because I was too lazy to get up and gain my own strength. That is not true strength." She stood with significantly less difficulty and patted the trembling woman on the cheek. "You have nothing to fear. Put the matter out of your head." She then leaned forward and smiled, trying to entice a similar one out of Helanna. "Besides, who else would get me out of bed every morning?" She gestured to her ridiculously long hair, "And who else would be able to tame this _mess_? I'd look like a barbarian if it weren't for your clever hands. What would I do without you, Helanna?"

And that was how Val ended up with a sobbing handmaiden in her bedroom.

She later took her down to the kitchens and made her a hot cup of tea, which seemed to calm her down. She now looked at Val with shining, venerating eyes, that made her feel a bit embarrassed. What kind of life could she have led that a gentle touch and a few kind words from someone like Val would have her drowning in tears of happiness? She already knew the answer, but hated it none-the-less. True indoctrinated slaves had no minds of their own. They didn't think of themselves as _people_. They didn't realize their importance.

Each slave's face was a mask that hid the inner-life inside; secret dreams, and hopes, and wishes. And they would never be given a chance to realize them—to truly become the person hidden away inside. They would shrivel up like an un-watered garden, wither away in the unforgiving heat of the beating Minrathous sun…and become nothing.

This was the reality of what Val was living with.

She felt so useless.

* * *

The bustling market place in Three Imperators' Square had Val staring at everything with guileless curiosity and bemusement. She wished she had fifteen heads so she could see everything at once. There were merchants hawking off their wares loudly, and she saw a stall with dwarves— _dwarves_!—selling clever puzzle boxes and children's trinkets. The people were dressed in strange, outlandish raiments—noble ladies in high-collared, imperious dresses; mages in hooded robes and spiked gauntlets; but her eyes were drawn most to the intimidating, hulking forms of the intricately armored guardsmen with their wicked looking spears, and their strange, spiny helmets that left their eyes completely shadowed in unreadable darkness from within. Performers entertained the masses with song and dance, their feet barely touching the cracked, square flagstones that lined the twisting city streets.

There was a fountain in the marketplace with the three posing imperators standing within that may have once flowed magnificently but now only dribbled with a sluggish trickle. The crumbling towers of the circles of magi could be seen in the distance, birds circling them like vultures. It was beautiful, and terrible, a fragrant scent on the breeze. Val followed behind her guard and guide carefully with Helanna's hand held tightly in her own. She did _not_ want to get lost in this place, enchanting though it may have been. With Helanna there playing tour guide, at least she felt somewhat more at ease than she would otherwise. She was allowed to be here. Nobody was going to attack her. And if they did, Dimitri would take care of it.

She had a full purse of coins, and she was going to make good use of it.

She had Helanna bargain with a few traders for various trinkets, paying close attention to each heated exchange—bartering was a skill, after all, and Val didn't like to be cheated. She noted that her gold coin could easily go a long way if negotiated properly, and Dimitri's imposing presence behind them didn't hurt. When noon came, Val bought a bulging bag of candied dates and shared them with Helanna and Dimitri by the fountain with the instructions to have as many as they liked. Helanna was visibly thrilled while Dimitri—who seemed to be used to playing a role similar to a mindless gollum—was slightly stirred out of his watchful monotony. Val beamed at them both, determined to make this a good day for everyone.

Finally, at the direction of one of the Dwarven merchants she had bought one of those curious puzzle boxes off of, they arrived at the front of a formal shoppe that when she tried to make out the plaque hanging over the door, she hadn't a snowball's chance in hell; it was all in Tevene, and she hadn't even graduated past Common yet. Still, she soldiered on with a bright smile aimed at her guard and companion, "I'll take it from here. I'll be right out."

"We'll be waiting right here for you, Mistress," Helanna ensured without question, though Dimitri seemed a little hesitant to let Val go anywhere on her own.

She assured him with a knowing smile, "If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, you can storm in like a rampaging druffalo and do that thing with your eyes where you made the toy-merchant look like he wanted to soil himself. That's genius, you know. All you have to do is stand there and look menacing."

At that, he favored her with the ghost of a smile and spoke for the first time outside of grunts and body-language, "The Master's bodyguard is far more adept at the technique than I, Mistress."

At that Helanna gave a shiver and nodded hurriedly in agreement. "Yes. I can't stand to be alone in a room with him. He doesn't sleep in the slaves' quarters anymore."

Val frowned heavily. "He's not that scary."

"But…those things…all over his body…" Helanna murmured.

"—hurt _him_ more than they hurt you," Val finished for her severely, looking away from her two speechless companions, concentrating for a moment on a lopsided flagstone at her feet. Her resolve hardened at that, and she turned towards the entrance of the shoppe once more. "I'll return shortly. Here, share the rest of these amongst yourselves. I'm not hungry." She pushed the bag of remaining sweet dates into Helanna's hands with a short nod, and headed into the book store without another word.

The dim lit store had no windows, only candle-light to see by, and smelled of old texts, dust, and mildew; it wasn't exactly an unpleasant smell, but Val had to fight not to let out a gigantic sneeze. The suppressed noise, however—a sound as if she had just murdered a mouse—brought to life an aged man behind the counter. He rose stately to his feet, despite his hunched back, and made his way toward her with a toothless smile, "Is there something I can help you with my Lady?"

"Yes, actually…" Val smiled back and told him what she needed.

"Hmm," the old man hummed in cobwebby voice. "We do have a few of those, if I'm not mistaken. Please give me just a moment. My memory's not as sharp as it used to be, you see…"

He eventually set out a line of volumes for her inspection on the counter, some thicker than others with various silver and gold clasps and bindings. However, Val was drawn to a leathery, dark green cover embossed with the pressed relief of a swallow in flight. "That's Varghest scale, if I remember correctly. It can hold up to a lot of wear and tear," the salesman stated informatively at her inspection. Wordlessly, she unwound the earthy twine holding it shut, unfolding the leather bindings to the vellum pages within and testing the feel of them against her fingertips, flipping through each page, searching for flaws.

Finally, she smiled up at the shopkeep and declared, "This one is perfect."

"That'd be six gold pieces, my Lady."

Six gold pieces? That was more than any of the other trinkets she'd bought at the merchants' stalls. She frowned for a moment, wondering if she should haggle, but decided against it in the last moment. She had a feeling she'd be making a lot of visits to this store in the future and decided a little patronage couldn't hurt. So she grinned and gave the seller ten pieces for the book and thanked him generously, promising, "No doubt you'll see me back in here again."

She thanked the man again and gave him her name in the polite way her etiquette teacher had insisted she memorize in Tevene. Thrilled, the old man remarked on how well behaved a young Lady she was and that her parents must be so proud, thoroughly embarrassing her, and walking her out of the store with entreaties to visit again soon. Everyone here had been so kind to her, but she saw the old man kick an urchin child out of his way as he returned to his shoppe, carelessly, as if flicking away a stray hair or a speck of dust…

If she was dressed in rags and hadn't a penny to her name, she'd have none of the kind reception she'd gotten from any of the people in the Tevinter marketplace. Frowning deeply, she presented the filthy, unhealthily gaunt child with five gold pieces and sent the grinning boy on his way. It would buy him dinner at least, and maybe a place to take shelter for the night… It still didn't seem like enough. But as Val realized as her eyes fell on more and more bedraggled and downtrodden figures, beggars and starving children hunched half-hidden in the shadows…there was no way she could save them all.

But perhaps, she mused thoughtfully, clutching the leathery book to her chest tightly, she thought she could save at least one…

The walk home was spent quietly and the sun grew low in the sky. When they returned to the manor, Val gave Helanna the dwarven puzzle box, and instructed for the rest of the trinkets to be handed out amongst the household's delighted children. Slaves were not usually given gifts, much less a slave child given a toy of their very own. Still, though her good deed brought smiles to the faces of the elven boys and girls, she still couldn't help the feeling of a gaping emptiness in her chest. She slipped out quietly and made her way up to her quarters with the book still clutched tightly in her hands.

Padding over to her writing desk, she sat down, back straight, and unfolded the leather binding again, flipping to the first page; it was blank. She took out a quill and ink—which were harder to write with than she'd first anticipated, but practice makes perfect. She then proceeded to slowly and painstakingly inscribe a poem from her time in the fade, one that had stood out to her, and so she remembered. It took her a good couple of hours to come up with the correct Common runes and scrapped several drafts—accidentally setting a few of them on fire in her frustration—before finally putting ink to the page:

 _Out of the night that covers me,_

 _Black as the Pit from pole to pole,_

 _I thank whatever gods may be_

 _For my unconquerable soul._

 _In the fell clutch of circumstance_

 _I have not winced nor cried aloud,_

 _Under the bludgeonings of chance_

 _My head is bloody, but unbowed._

 _Beyond this place of wrath and tears_

 _Looms but the horror of the shade,_

 _And yet the menace of the years_

 _Finds, and shall find me, unafraid._

 _It matters not how strait the gate,_

 _How charged with punishments the scroll,_

 _I am the master of my fate:_

 _I am the captain of my soul._

In Tevene, _Inviccius_ meant 'Invincible.'

Val awoke some time later to a soft shaking of her shoulder and she shot upright, peeling her face from off the writing desk where she'd drifted off to sleep the previous night when a feeling of deep unease shook her conscious. Helanna stood over her, hands writhing and eyes darting with nervous anxiety.

"Mistress," she whispered as if the walls themselves were listening. "Master has returned. He sends for you."

She stared back at her guilelessly for a moment, then narrowed her eyes and grated out, "He's early."

Val hated it when plans went awry.

She slapped the leather flap back over the book furiously.

* * *

 **So, here's the second installment. The next update might not be as quick, and I'm afraid this one is a little short, but hopefully it gives you a better look at Minrathous, and what things are like there. Surprisingly, this is all courtesy of Calpernia herself (who knew she could be so helpful?), so most if not all (obviously not all) of this is pulled from cannon.**

 **Also, in case you didn't notice, all the chapter names will be pulled from classic poetry. Hope it's not too presumptuous of me, but there are just so many that fit this story!**

 **SO, If any of you have any suggestions of your favorite classical poems that you think coincide with events in the story, PLEASE SEND THEM IN.**


	3. Anywhere Out of This World

Spaceholder :)

* * *

 **Anywhere Out of This World**

"Have you remembered anything, Dearest?" Interrupted the silence which had previously only been accompanied by the sluggish taps of silver utensils on porcelain plates. Val's hair was pulled back into an uncomfortable braided updo piled on top of her head that made her high Tevinter cheekbones stand out like jutting table corners. Along with a stiff-backed, high-collared dress, Val couldn't wait to escape from it all. And that incessant question, in the letter, in the first days of waking—what exactly was it that he wanted her to remember so badly?

She stared down the long dining table to the magister seated in the throne-like chair at the other end. Finally, putting down her fork quietly and politely, she set her hands in her lap gently and asked, "Has _Fenris_ remembered anything?"

The slim figure in question shifted uncomfortably in the shadows. Danarius arched a brow in response and answered, "I don't see how that has a _thing_ to do with the subject at hand."

"But you must admit the outcome of both rituals had one very big thing in common," Val insisted, staring straight into the slate grey eyes of her father without flinching. "Or perhaps there's more to it that I don't understand. Though I have come up with a few theories… I have my eye on a few books in the library that are a little ambitious for me at the moment, but I'll get there sooner than you think." Her eyes flicked to the shadowed figure for a moment before flicking back to the magister and she told him with finality, "Until then, I'm sure I'll have no better luck than poor Fenris over there." She went on in feigned nonchalance, "As it is, it's not high on my list of priorities at the moment. I'm tired of waiting around for something that may never come. Why focus on the past when the focus could be put on making even better memories? And besides," she let herself smile predatorily. "all good things come to those who stop waiting for them."

Danarius' eyes lit up at that, and he exclaimed with a bark of laughter, "Have you been reading the Old God scriptures? You must have misread something, sweet Child."

Val arched her brow. "Actually…that one was mine." She paused. "For the most part, anyhow."

It sent him off into another torrent of laughter, as if everything she said was amusing for some reason. She heard a subtle mocking edge to his next words. "Well then perhaps there will be a new scripture one day? The Chronicles of Valeria! It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"I'll set to work on it straight away, _Adda_ ," she mocked back self-depreciatingly, with a surprising amount of ease. "I just hope they don't mind all the atrocious misspellings…"

As he laughed once more, somehow, in a twisted way, she realized she actually _missed_ Danarius. If only because it alleviated the boredom and somewhat filled the gaping hole in her life with just the right amount of tension and verbal spars she thrived upon.

She really needed to find some better friends, because, father or no father, Danarius certainly was not what one would call 'friendship' material. The first chance she got, she needed to become independent from him—get out of his house. She had no idea how to survive in Tevinter on her own though. So she needed to learn from him first. Loathe though she may be to admit it, Danarius did well for himself despite his vile methods.

If she wanted to change anything in this place she was now forced to call home, she would need _power_ ; that's all anyone recognized in Tevinter—in which she now _intimately_ understood how secrets could very well become powerful weapons…

"You seem to be in much better spirits than when I left," Danarius finally remarked. "The color has returned to your cheeks at last."

"I'm at a hundred percent," she agreed without thinking.

"Ah," the magister remarked with some surprise. "It seems you've remembered your maths lessons as well."

Thinking fast, Val quipped back, "Such a burning hatred is not so easily forgotten, I imagine."

He grinned at her wickedly. "You've not changed at all, my dear. I'm relieved to hear it…" He paused thoughtfully. "Though it seems you've gained the love of the entire household in my absence. Just what have you been up to?"

"Dying of boredom, mostly," she replied honestly. "The magic tutor you've assigned to me is incompetent. I keep setting things on fire and he doesn't tell me how to fix it. Furthermore, I have absolutely no need of an etiquette teacher." She daintily covered a yawn, then added as an afterthought, "In my spare time, I've been plotting to destroy you."

He let out a bark of laughter, thoroughly amused. "So that's why the entire house seems to worship you."

"Among other reasons," she evaded smoothly, and told him accusingly, "It would be just deserts for abandoning me to my own devices for a month and a half. Things tend to unravel when you leave them unattended to…and trip you up when you least expect it."

"Another one for the scriptures, I take it?"

"Oh, most definitely," she agreed sardonically. "It's also code for 'don't leave me here alone anymore, or something might explode when you get back.' That also might happen anyway if I don't get another tutor soon. It's up to you, of course, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"Is it a warning or a threat, I wonder?" He smiled thinly at her.

"The lines tend to blur sometimes, don't they?" Val remarked ambiguously. Then she waved it off lazily. "Forgive my musings. Did you not mention something in your letter about gardens? Or did I misread that as well?"

The smile curled knowingly. "I thought that might attract your attention."

* * *

The next morning had Danarius barking orders at Fenris in rapid Tevene—some of which made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Finally, Val took pity on him and asked in a rather dull tone, "Really, _Adda_ , if you're going to plan every single detail of this trip moment-by-moment, why don't you just come along?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'd be neglecting my duties. I have mountains of work piled up from the last trip. You understand, of course, Dearest?" He met her slightly accusing gaze with identical eyes—which was about the only thing besides magic that proved they were related in her opinion.

"…I suppose so," she finally allowed in a monotone. In truth, she was rather glad he wasn't accompanying them. But she had a reputation as a zealous daddy's girl to upkeep, so she had to showcase at least _some_ visible disappointment at his absence. She looked at Fenris next. "I'll just retrieve a few things before we set off then. The Proving Grounds are quite a walk from here, are they not?" She eyed her father with a look of mild exasperation. "Please have the battle plan figured out by the time I get back, yes?" And as she passed him, she made the sarcastic, sideways remark to Fenris, "This is so exciting, I feel like we're about to be shipped off to war…"

She might have imagined the twitch of a smirk that graced his lips for a fraction of a second.

She returned to her quarters for a more practical change of shoes—despite Helanna's previous attempts to dissuade her away from them—before scoffing at her dress in the mirror, giving it up as a bad job, but freezing momentarily at the sight of the pale reflection of her face. She still couldn't get used to it. This body felt…strange. Not to mention she was a good few years younger. She was only around twenty now. She was slimmer as well, her bust reduced by at least two sizes, and her long fingernails were filed into wickedly sharp, curving claws, hardened by thick, blackened lacquer—as was the fashion for women in the Imperium at the moment. Ridiculous. To her chagrin, she'd already nicked herself and a few of the slaves a couple of times. If it didn't symbolize someone who never had to work a day in their lives, Val didn't know what did, because she could barely write her own damned name down, much less do something substantial.

She supposed it—like the rest of her—would just take some serious getting used to.

Sighing with melancholy, she padded softly over to her writing desk, using the tiny key around her neck to unlock it. She then pulled up the desk top to gingerly shove aside her scattered assignments and notes on the Common alphabet—a few on Tevinter runes, not so different from Latin—that lay within, and pulled up the false bottom that she had discovered on her second day there. That's where she kept her notes in the English alphabet, which she could actually read without getting a headache; sighing, she wondered if she would ever get all of it figured out.

Seeing as how everything appeared to be in the chaotic order she had left it, she shoved those aside as well and picked up the leather bound book she had gotten two days previously. For a moment, she just held it in her hands, thinking once again of the hundred and one ways this could go wrong; she thought long and hard. She also asked herself once more, 'Why?' _Why_ was she doing this?

She was lonely, of course.

She wanted to form a bond. Something substantial, with roots that ran deep, inextricable— _real_. Different from the shallow, superficial bonds of mistress and slave she'd formed with Helanna, and Dimitri. Because no matter how kind, caring, or how gracious she was with them, that's all it was, and all it ever would be. They weren't like her. In order to truly be free, they first needed to _understand_ freedom—and she couldn't teach _every single one of them_. Not at the same time, anyway. And Val had the distinct feeling that she didn't have that sort of time.

Time would come later. That is…if her experiment succeeded. If it didn't…well.

Val didn't want to think what would happen if she failed.

She was sure there were easier, safer, more beneficial ways to make friends in Tevinter…but Val had never been one to do things to easy way; the easy way doesn't always pay out, you see. She was thorough, calculating, and loved to gamble with high-stakes. It's why she loved her job in the Fade. She didn't know how it felt for others, but for Val, playing the game from the other side of the table was a _rush_. She felt like a goddess, putting her creations out into the world (or in front of a gambler) and watching them win big, or destroy themselves, all in the twisting, torrent tide of luck and chance—just a spectator in the game she dealt out.

But this time, she was gambling with lives.

She didn't know if she had that sort of right. She was only a god of the card table, after all—nothing more. Yet if she did nothing, did not take the first step…nothing would change. And though Denarius' insidious tendencies had not quite surfaced as of yet, Val knew they were there, and she did _not_ trust him. She didn't know what he had planned for her, but she would bet her life that a man like him would certainly have them in _spades_. And though she didn't like to admit it—because admitting it makes it real—he frightened her. And in the face of that, she could only trust what she knew to protect herself. She would need to take preemptive steps against him, procure allies, _powerful_ allies, and she would need to do it _soon_.

Her fingers tightened against the leathery binding.

* * *

' _Maybe this is what Babylon looked like once upon a few millennia ago_ …' she pondered in awe upon their arrival. She felt like a tourist in Europe, standing in the same spot as Alexander the Great once stood. In the end, she decided the sweltering walk had been well worth it. And she concluded that it was the single most beautiful thing Minrathous possessed. Countless levels, balconies, and terraces of creeping, dangling vines bursting with flowers in every color she could imagine. Some even seemed to glow, and she'd bet money they were grown with some sort of magic at their roots. She wanted to pick some and take them with her, but she knew that was impossible. This was a work of art; you don't just pick off pieces of art and bring them home with you.

"You know, I hope this place never falls. A million years from now, the rest of the city might rot and collapse in on itself," her eyes shined as she took in the beauty surrounding them, "…but I hope this stays." She wondered if it was too harsh to wish that the rest would burn.

Yes, she decided, it _was_ a little harsh. After all, the city never did anything wrong. It was the people _in_ it—or at least a good number of them—that deserved to burn. But there it was again. Who was _she_ to decide something like that?—who lives and who dies. She frowned at herself. Her thoughts were growing more vindictive and morbid by the day.

It was probably just stress.

Or at least that's what she hoped it was. The alternative was…scary.

"Would you like me to carry your parasol, Mistress?"

Val cringed, making a face, and turned to scrutinize her near silent guard with an almost harassed look. "I told you not to call me that, and for the last time, _no_ … Why is everyone so obsessed over ensuring I have a blasted umbrella!?" She scowled at the bulky, lacy monstrosity Helanna had insisted she take with her. She had it carelessly slung over her shoulder, annoyed at having to flip-flop with a fan in one hand and the parasol's ornate handle in the other. "Besides, it wouldn't kill me to get a tan, you know…"

She eyed his own dusky tan enviously, but tried not to stare. It was hard not to though. Characters from a videogame you used to play in another life becoming part of your reality was somewhat of a big deal. And offering to carry her _parasol_ —it would completely ruin the image she had built up of the strong, stoic warrior inside her head. _Fenris_ does _not_ carry emasculating parasols for fan-flapping ladies in stupid, frivolous dresses. This was an atrocity she would not allow to take place.

"Mis—" he paused, and seemed to force himself to utter the less formal title, "My Lady…" But she stared at him sternly until he finally choked out, " _Valeria_ ," he ducked his head towards her as if not wanting to be overheard, "please take a look at the other noblewomen on the terrace and identify one thing they all have in common…"

She arched a brow at him.

"Humor me."

She stared into his face for as long as she dared without getting that overwhelming feeling that he was too _real_ , then looked away and let out a put-upon sigh, redirecting her sights towards the other couples moseying about the gardens. The women were always what drew the eye of the onlooker. In comparison to many, Val's own ridiculous threads looked positively _modest_. Of course there was the overlying theme of imperious, dark, and intimidating styles, with towering, spiked collars, and intricate headdresses… If _she_ was sweating, Val wondered how some of these women weren't boiling in their layers upon layers of finery.

"They all look much too overheated in those clothes…?" she verged, with a slight amount of concern.

"Try again," Fenris told her dryly.

"Erm…they all have parasols?"

"You're getting warmer."

"Ugh!" She exclaimed in irritation, finally snapping, "They all look pale and unnatural, like the moon burnt them!"

He gave her a stiff nod, seemingly satisfied that she had given him the answer he'd anticipated. "It's a sign of status," he explained to her in a carefully neutral tone. "It is fashionable for those of the highborn elite to look untouched by the sun's rays. Those of darker complexion are looked down upon in the Magisterium."

Val felt the scowl twisting upon her face, and it can't have looked pleasant, because Fenris gave one of his almost imperceptible flinches again at the sight of it. "Oh, so it's fashionable to look as if they've had all the blood sucked out of them and never done a decent day's work in their lives?" She scoffed loudly and flicked her nails into the sun defiantly, "And I suppose that's the reasoning behind these horrid things as well?"

"Ancient Tevinter culture reveres the Old Gods—dragons," he pointed out informatively with a nod towards her clawed hands. "It's common enough among the nobles, but more so with mages…particularly those still pious and devoted to the Old Gods." She had to listen closely, but she thought she heard just a hint of bitterness leaking into his tone as he eyed her talons warily.

Experimentally, testing a rather ominous theory, she extended a digit towards him and watched with a growing frown as he jerked away from it. A horrible feeling welled within her gut and she looked down and away from him as she deduced, "I hurt you with these. Before. Didn't I."

It wasn't a question.

To her surprise and self-disdain, he did not stare at her in disgust like she expected him to, but answered her evenly, "You were somewhat… _overzealous_ upon acquiring them."

"…Well," she finally said decisively, "when they grow out, I'm getting rid of them. Simple as that. No more harming people accidentally, and _certainly_ not on purpose."

She could have sworn she almost saw him _smirk_ as he informed her, "I wish you luck in that noble endeavor, Mistress. Though I would humbly advise caution in the attempt…" He then proceeded to point out, "If you _do_ somehow manage to rid yourself of them without blowing your fingers off, nothing will grow back in their place. The lacquer used kills the nailbeds, even as it preserves the nail itself…and is highly expensive."

She stared at the unnatural things in mounting horror as it dawned on her and barely suppressed the exclamation of, ' _WHAT?!_ ' instead whispering in pure devastation, "…You mean to tell me that I _mutilated_ myself for a set of fancy, _permanent_ status symbols?"

"Evidently so…" he remarked without sympathy. "though I've never heard it put so aptly before."

She let go of the parasol and covered her face with her hand in self-disgust. It was only when she felt the shade again that she realized Fenris had indeed gotten ahold of the stupid umbrella and was holding it for her. Irate, she grabbed it from him, folded it up, and _hurled_ it over the edge of the terrace. She felt an odd sense of satisfaction when she heard someone on the lower levels cry out, and was indeed in a better mood as she chose to make it easier on the put-upon bodyguard by relocating to a shaded alcove by a babbling fountain.

"Well, Fenris," she remarked with forced cheer and a bounce in her step as she approached a stone bench, "I'll give you front row seats to witness me blowing my fingers off when the time comes. It should be quite the event."

"I am honored, Mistress," he told her dryly, then corrected himself when she glared at him, "Valeria."

She favored him with a grin. "I'll even let you keep them afterwards. Perhaps you can amuse yourself later by feeding them to wild dogs, or something."

"I'd pity the dogs—" he cut himself off with a hesitant expression, as if he hadn't meant for that to slip out.

But a burst of laughter erupted from Val before he could make a move to apologize to her. And all she did in retaliation was smile at him and say, "I _knew_ there was a reason I liked you. You're not dead inside like the others. I can see it in your eyes sometimes." At his look of confusion, she explained, "With everyone else, it's like the lights are on, but nobody's home, right? They walk, they talk, they breathe, they bleed, they cry, and then they die—but they don't _live_. There's definitely something still alive in you, though. I can _feel_ it." She stared at him meaningfully. "Don't ever lose that spark, Fenris. It's more precious than you can even begin to imagine."

"…I don't know what you mean," he confessed as she motioned for him to join her on the shady bench.

"I can't say I'm surprised." She watched as he stood uncertainly before removing the heavy sword on his back with some reluctance and taking a seat beside her, wedging the tip of the blade between two flagstones, his gauntleted hand resting loose upon its pommel, but still poised to jump to the ready at any moment—hypervigilant—carefully looking at anything but her. After observing him carefully for a long time, she asked, "Tell me, Fenris…if I asked you to keep a secret, would you promise not to tell?"

Instantly, his eyes snapped back to her, puzzled. "Why not just order my silence?"

She sighed. "An order is just that. An order. You do it because you're _ordered_ to do it. And an order can be easily overridden by those in a position of higher authority," she explained. "But a _promise_ …" She paused, choosing her words carefully and holding his gaze steadily. "A promise, you keep because you _want_ to. Because your own _honor_ demands it of you." She then told him forcefully, "Those who don't keep their promises should not make them in the first place. But a good man tries his hardest to fulfill them, no matter what. So again, I ask you," she smiled. "can you keep a secret, Fenris?"

He ducked his head in thought, avoiding her eyes, before meeting them again decisively, "…That would depend on what sort of secret you wish me to keep for you."

"The best kind of secret!" she whispered conspiratorially, "The kind where no one gets hurt, and both parties benefit."

"Then why does it feel like I'm making a deal with a _demon_?" he asked with narrowed eyes.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," she waved away his concern. "It's nothing so sinister as _that_ , I assure you."

"Speak. Let me hear this… _secret_ of yours," he prompted her warily with a put-upon stare.

"You have to promise to keep it first. Shan't say a word till you do." She crossed her arms smartly.

He looked like he was struggling not to roll his eyes at her—or strangle her—but eventually sighed a longsuffering sigh and agreed, "Very well. You have my…promise."

She tossed him a beaming smile at his words, and reached into the folds of her dress. "Well then, in that case, I have a gift for you." She gripped the leathery book and held it out to him.

He seemed completely nonplussed with surprise, and he didn't move for several seconds, nor reach to accept it, which was beginning to worry her. Finally, he narrowed his eyes at her and told her coldly, "You know very well I cannot read, Mistress."

"We'll need to fix that then, won't we," she told him, undeterred, still extending the book towards him like an olive branch. "I'm having trouble learning, myself. I sure it's due to Father's wonderfully competent tutors. I have some grasp of it, though I feel _my_ method of learning would be much more efficient than Master Harrigan's. I do require a partner, however." She nodded to him in acknowledgement. "Preferably a peer on my own level, whose company I actually _enjoy_ , so I don't feel like constantly pulling my hair out, yes?"

He seemed to be at a loss for words, and Val could almost _hear_ his mind buzzing with a million questions. But in the end, he asked her cynically, "You…enjoy my company?"

"Does that surprise you?" she laughed.

"Yes," he answered bluntly, still somewhat shell-shocked. "It does."

"Well, if I have to explain my reasoning, you already know half of it." She laughed again and pointed out, "Do you know any other slave who would pity the dogs to eat my hypothetically blown off appendages? Name _one_ in the entire household who would have the guts to say something like that to me. You're _honest_. And frankly, I adore you for it." Moving on, she added, "Moreover, as I said, no one else has _life_ in them—not even Helanna, or Dimitri! I was excruciatingly lonely when you and Father were gone. And I don't even _remember_ Father… I don't remember anything." She sighed with a bit of a half-hearted shrug and murmured somewhat dismally, "I figured you and I are in the same boat…one amnesiac to another."

His eyes narrowed at her, and his voice was chilly when he insisted, "It is not the same."

She shook her head grimly, a dark strand escaping the elaborate knots on top of her head to fall against her cheek. "No… You're absolutely right." Her fingers curled once again around the leather bound journal and she slowly pulled it back into her lap. "Forgive me… Maybe I was just being stupid." She bit down on the inside of her lip, her eyes inexplicably glazing over with what could only be the onset of tears. For what? Embarrassment? A wounded pride?

Rejection…?

She looked down and away—a mistake, as the motion caused one of the big, fat, treacherous drops to escape the confines of her eyelids and run down her cheek. She instinctively swiped her hand to be rid of the evidence, unthinking. She hissed as the sting of her nails left behind a light scratch on her face and cursed quietly to herself in frustration, shaking out her hand as if doing so would rid her of the tiresome things. Sniffling and feeling like an idiot, she murmured in a voice somewhat higher-pitched than normal, "I really am being stupid… This was a bad idea from the start. I—"

She almost jumped at the feeling of his fingers at her chin, turning her head to face him. She was frozen, wide-eyed, and unable to stop or hide the rest of her tears when they breached their confines and chased each other down her cheeks. He moved his thumb to brush away a thicker substance as it seeped from her cut, tracing it carefully. It stung, but Val hardly felt it. She couldn't take her eyes off his as they studied her with an inscrutable intensity. Using his knuckles, he brushed away the errant tears with his other hand, exhibiting more gentleness than she thought him capable of, though his face contained none of it. No… He stared at her like she was a puzzle he couldn't figure out.

It made her heart jerk erratically in her chest.

When he finally spoke, his words were spare, chosen carefully, and she got the feeling he puzzled out more than she suspected he would, leaving her feeling vulnerable and foolish. Still, he seemed unwilling to acknowledge it, merely reciting, "This gesture clearly means much to you… If it is reconciliation you seek, I require nothing from you, Miss—"

"You deserve a lot more than one measly gesture of kindness for how I treated you in the past!" she snapped heatedly, guilt and shame welling up inside like stinging bile. She looked at her taloned fingers and murmured more quietly, "I don't want to be that person anymore…" More hot tears welled in her eyes at the utter helplessness of her situation, and her glistening orbs snapped back to the elf by her side, finally admitting, "I don't know what to do now. And I don't think I can do it alone…"

"…Have you talked to your father about this?"

She laughed to herself mirthlessly, looking away again. "When I first woke up, I don't know why but…when I saw you, I felt like _you_ were the only one I could trust… I certainly don't trust _him_. Tell me, who in their right mind would talk to him about—" She closed her eyes and shook her head. "…I must seem so foolish."

For a while, there was an uncomfortable silence between the two of them, and that seemed to confirm it. Then, so quietly she almost didn't hear him, he told her, "It's dangerous to trust anyone in this city." His eyes met hers meaningfully. "…You are many things, but you are not a fool."

 _Don't trust him,_ the look in his eyes said. _Never._

 _Never,_ hers agreed back.

Then she looked away at a commotion across the terrace, watching as a slave woman in rags carrying a heavy pot of what smelled like fertilizer was nearly bowled over by heedless passersby without even a word of apology or attempt at righting her when she swayed. Val watched in dread as the pot almost fall in slow motion until it exploded into shards of terracotta upon the flagstones…and the woman's bare feet. She yelped in pain, falling hard, and Val flinched when a feeling of empathy hit her like a punch to the gut. Her first instinct was to rush over and help…but her fingers gripped the edge of the stone bench beneath her until her knuckles turned white, keeping her in place. One does not simply help others out of the goodness of their heart in Tevinter. Much less a slave.

Her eyes darted to Fenris who watched on with a sort of forced apathy that almost made her sick to look at, and acknowledged the fact that she wasn't without her own ulterior motives in respect to the slave in question. She was obviously emotionally involved. Her tears were evidence enough to this fact, though she wasn't one to easily display them; she hadn't cried since her impromptu panic attack weeks ago. What worried her is that she couldn't pinpoint where they came from this time. This… _vulnerability_ —a hyperawareness—she felt towards the man beside her was not a good sign, she knew. She was still unsure of where she stood with him, but their painful silences left her feeling like it was on the edge of a knife. She felt strange, guilty, and uncomfortable all at the same time while simultaneously straining against the urge to reach out and take his hand; it was a violent battle of emotions, overlaid by something even worse that she couldn't identify.

Unable to look at him any longer—it was like trying to stare into the sun—she switched her gaze back to the fallen slave grimly. The woman limped to her feet, bloodied by several nasty cuts from her ankles to her toes…and then she proceeded to kneel in the _manure_ , picking up every shard of pottery piece-by-piece, her face crumpled in tears. A noble's child kicked out at her once with a cruel laugh as a nanny dragged him along, and the woman flinched away fearfully, dropping a few shards in the process and pricking her fingers with them. Val couldn't watch any longer, her eyes falling to her hands clenching fistholds of her dress. She took a deep breath, and slowly unclenched them.

"Something needs to change," she whispered, her hands clenching again, this time as a slow, bubbling anger began to roil in her gut. "And if I have to pound down the Archon's front door to do it, so be it."

Fenris' eyes darted towards her, and he said immediately, "Ideas like that are dangerous." He went on to explain knowledgably, "Even _if_ you manage to bypass Master Danarius, even _if_ you were equal to him in the eyes of the Magisterium, and if by some _miracle_ you managed to make some success in your idealisms…woe be upon you all the more. There are those who dedicate their lives to supporting this system, and if you attempt to undermine them, they can and _will_ devise ways to destroy everything you hold dear." When she set her face stubbornly, he leaned in closer and told her slowly and clearly, so there was no way she could misunderstand him when he simplified, "They—will— _kill_ —you."

Her nightmares of assassins returned to her vividly, and she swallowed thickly, casting her eyes down once more. Tears welled in her eyes _again_ as the helpless feeling came back to her in spades and she trembled out, "…How do you live like this?"

For the first time, his eyes may have flashed with something like pity when he looked at her, and no small amount of resignation. Finally, he told her quietly, "Practice."

"I won't," she shook her head solemnly, her tears escaping once again as she watched passerby trod upon the injured woman—as if she didn't exist. "I _can't_."

"Then leave," Fenris said dryly, his patience with her just about worn through.

She looked up at him guilelessly with the question, "And go where?"

He looked at her as if she'd just asked one of life's most profound questions.

And perhaps it was.

* * *

 **Alright, so this is late (and unedited *cringe*) but I recently got a burst of inspiration and decided to run with it. It's short, but I figured you guys deserved something.**

 **I feel like Val got a little weepy with this one. Then again, Tevinter kind of sucks. Like, majorly. There are no happy endings there. She's still struggling to accept that. She's got optimism and Fenris has fatalism. To each their own, I suppose. My money is on Fenris' bet though. Val's gonna get herself killed.**

 **On an unrelated note... Any LOTR fans out there?**

 **Don't read into that.**


	4. A Poison Tree

**TRIGGER WARNING**

 **Sort of? I don't really know why people put these here. I guess for extra sensitive readers? Victims of stuff? I hope I don't offend anyone. I don't know if I did this right... Anyway, there's just...mentions of squicky stuff. No detail, or anything.**

* * *

 **A Poison Tree**

They weren't friends.

Val wasn't sure what she was expecting really. It was _Fenris_. One does not simply become friends with _Fenris_. Every gesture she made in the time following their outing only succeeded in making her feel like an idiot. He was exquisitely skilled at making her feel small and foolish. He didn't even have to try. It was almost like art—and he was a _master_ at it. Every rebuff made her want to curl up into a little ball in the dark—or even crawl in a hole and _die_ if he was in rare form. And though he seldomly deviated from painful propriety, he could still manage to leave her feeling like he'd just ripped out her soul with merely a few polite rejoinders. It was maddening, and was perhaps the cause of her new little habit of pacing holes in her rug. Literally. She'd already had to get it replaced twice.

Still, despite everything, whenever she spied the smallest twitch of his lips at her disappointed face, she couldn't help but think that she made a little more progress with each failure. So every time she felt like pulling her hair out, she told herself not to give up.

She _did_ wish her etiquette tutor would give up on her at first though… It wasn't just table manners and balancing books on her head she was being forced to learn, but _genealogies_. Having to learn and remember all the names of important Magisters along with their families was exhausting. That was until she found out Felix Alexius was one of her distant cousins.

She paused a moment, wondering what was so familiar about the name, then burst out in giddy, hysterical laughter right in the middle of her lesson.

It wasn't really that surprising. From what she could tell by her lessons _all_ the nobility here seemed to be related in some way or another. But still, the very idea of it brought her no end of amusement…and a startling realization. Absorbed in her own problems and concerns, she'd almost forgotten the others who lived in Tevinter—such a foolish thing to do! It was fortunate Felix's name came up. It opened up so many doorways in her mind.

 _Of course!_ she marveled to herself, a vague plan forming in her head tapping her chin with the end of her quill feather pen.

"Are you paying attention, my dear?"

"No," Val told Madame Fabia without looking at her, shaking her head, studying the genealogy before her with a slowly dawning epiphany. "No, Madame, right now I need you to pay attention to me."

"I _beg_ your pardon?" The normally composed woman went very still.

Val stood to face her unflinchingly. "You're a good teacher. You've been very patient with me, and I thank you for that. I'm well aware that I've never been the best student—nor a grateful one. I know I've been difficult, and for that, you have my sincerest apology." The woman's face went slack in shock at the admission. Val seldomly apologized for anything. "In light of that…I must also make a confession. Social niceties are never, _ever_ going to be my forte. And though I know you're being employed to teach me that very thing, I would strongly— _strongly_ —suggest you give this ambition up now. But _this_ " —she tapped the heavy volume in front of her emphatically— " _this_ is what I need to know. What I also need to know is whether or not you are loyal to the one who pays you—or to your _students_. What comes first in your heart, Madame Fabia? Money? Or those who benefit from your teachings?"

After the woman was through being well and truly gobsmacked, her slate grey eyes hardened, and Val knew the answer before the Madame could even speak. "If you _must_ know, my only joy and passion in this life since the death of my lord husband is seeing those I teach succeed, my dear."

"Then you must know that my father has absolutely no intention to see such things," Val informed her very matter-of-factly, her own face hard and determined. "I know in my heart that I am nothing more than a political bargaining chip to him. He hires a hack magician to teach me magic, because he does not wish for me to learn anything more than parlor tricks. He gives you an itinerary of subjects only _he_ approves of to _control_ what I am allowed to know. I take it this tome was not strictly part of the agreed upon lesson plan, no?" She tapped the genealogy again with raised brows as the older, severe faced woman looked away pointedly. "You are frustrated too, no?"

"It is not my place to—"

"Then _who_?" Val's voice was quiet. "Who must I rely on in this world where I cannot even trust my own father? I will be sold off one day like cattle to the first man who can provide a political gain, and you know me, Madame Fabia—I will _die_ in that man's house, shut up like a prized trinket, or _worse_ —"

" _Enough_ ," said the Madame, voice shaken. Silence reigned in the library for the longest time until Madame Fabia let out a long sigh and collapsed gracefully into the chair across from Val's desk. "What is it that you wish from me, Child? I am old, and no match for political mastermind like Magister Danarius. There is very little I can do to interfere—"

Val's eyes widened and shook her head profusely. " _No!_ " At her teacher's shocked countenance after the outburst, she continued in a more subdued yet no less urgent tone, "No, I would not ask that of you, Madame—he is _far_ too dangerous to provoke in that way."

Madame Fabia blinked several times. " _Dangerous_? My dear, I have heard the rumors, but… _surely_ —"

"Everything you've heard is probably true, and worse yet untold," Val murmured quietly, her pale face going paler. "My Father is a _monster_ , Madame Fabia, make no mistake. In fact, it would probably be in your best interest to resign your position here and find work elsewhere. Were I a less selfish person, I'd even _urge_ you to leave the estate at this very moment and get yourself as far away as humanly possible. As it is, I would not hold it against you in the slightest if you were to do that very thing. The gods _know_ I wish I could do the same…" She looked down at her lap solemnly for a moment before looking again at the startled woman with the same, hard determination she had started with. "But I will continue to fight. Knowledge is power, Madame—I know that very well. Not only that, but it is the only power that cannot be taken away from you. Niceties? Manners? Pretty words? These things are useful to a point, but in the end, _meaningless_ in the face of power." She repeated with an undertone of disgust, " _Power_ is the only thing that matters here…"

She paused for a few moments to let that sink in, then stated, "If you cannot teach me what I need to learn to survive, I understand. My father is a force to be reckoned with when angered, and I would not want you to risk your life for me, as I have— _admittedly_ —" she murmured, head bowed with some semblance shame, "—shown you very little in the way of respect or common decency…" She trailed off for a bit as the Madame sat stiffly before her, but gave her a nod of wordless acknowledgement to show her forgiveness. Lips tilting up in encouragement, Val continued, "But know this, Madame: If given half the chance…I will _rip_ through this world like a whirlwind. When I awoke in this crumbling travesty of a city, I knew I had to do something to change things. I will soar far past the heights of the likes of my father, and leave my enemies screaming for mercy in my wake. Because, despite my aversion to _everything_ that he stands for…" She concluded grimly with, "I am still _very_ much my father's daughter."

Madame Fabia examined her with an unreadable expression on her wizened, but still beautiful, face for several moments before giving her another gracious nod. "Of that, I have no doubt, Mistress Valeria." Then she stood, smoothed down her understated dress, gathered her papers and headed towards the exit. Val's face fell, and she felt her hopes sinking to the floor as she watched her teacher leave. The woman was strict, but fair—a rare commodity in Tevinter. It was a fluke that her father had actually hired someone competent—a mistake on his part, no doubt. Not even Val had seen the worth in her at first— _petulance_ on her part… And now she was walking away. But Val was glad she'd given her warnings. With any luck, word would spread within the circles of education in the city, and Danarius would be blacklisted. Her lips tilted up coldly with the thought of that small triumph and she inwardly snickered to herself—

"I expect that book to be memorized from front to back by this time next week, my dear," Madame Fabia's voice cut through Val's thoughts like an icepick, and her head snapped up immediately, seeing the book of genealogies still lying open on the table. "I trust you'll take good care of it…" In other words, tell no one where she got it—Val could do that.

She beamed at her teacher and bowed in an intentionally sloppy caricature of the way she'd been taught. "Have a very good evening, Madame Fabia!"

"May the gods have mercy on us both…" she heard the woman mutter on the way out of the room, shaking her head at the willful girl.

Val continued to smile triumphantly after she'd left, excitement building in her chest as she turned back to the tome on the desk, her heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. She was just turning another page when she heard a quiet padding of footsteps drawing nearer. She froze as none other than the stark faced bane of her existence settled into the seat across from her, cold green eyes burning into her accusingly. She didn't even dare to breathe as he sat there quietly—just staring at her in stern silence. She still held the page in her fingers, poised and half-turned, fluttering limply in the air filled with dust motes made visible by the rays of sunlight that filtered through the windows.

Finally, she asked lowly, "…How long were you listening?"

"Long enough," said Fenris.

More silence. Val avoided his eyes and turned the page.

Without looking at him—afraid at what she'd see in his face—she wondered, "What are you thinking about?"

"What does it matter what I'm thinking about?" he snapped at her. "That should be the last thing on your mind—"

"It matters to me," She said.

And that was that.

She dared to look up at him then, not as cowed by the silence anymore. "I make you uncomfortable…" she murmured quietly. "I apologize."

Val was not one to apologize lightly.

"You do not make me…uncomfortable," he denied in a clearly uncomfortable, halting way.

" _You_ —my fine, pointy-eared friend," she purred, trying to hide a smile despite herself, "…are a shitty liar."

"I am not your _friend_ …" he objected, moving to fidget with his ear unobtrusively. She noticed that he didn't say anything about being a shitty liar.

"I know…" She felt her lips fall into a small frown at that, and looked up at him from the page in front of her contritely. "Are you going to tell on me, Fenris?"

"…You will be punished," he told her quietly, with an unreadable look, searching her face for answers. "You know this… _Why_ would you rebel against him?"

Her eyes glint with the same determination from before. "Someone has to."

"He provides for you," he protested heatedly, "feeds you, clothes you—you live in the lap of luxury—"

"—whilst others starve and suffer in the streets?" she hissed back. "Whilst the nobles and the mages squabble away with their petty intrigues, and let the city crumble around them? Whilst, at this very moment, a six-year-old child could be getting auctioned off at the docs and torn out of her mother's arms to be sold to the wealthiest buyer? Ten years later she's being used in some fucked-up experiment—"

"Stop," he murmured in a hard tone.

"—and now she's secretly being used as some closet maniac's walking blood-bag whore—"

"I said, _STOP!"_ he barked out, standing suddenly and knocking the chair over. He leaned over her menacingly, eyes flashing and haunted. "Stop."

Val stared back at him, determined, and said quietly, "…This is not the world I want to live in, Fenris. I won't." More quietly, she agreed, "It has to stop… And I, for one, am not just sit here and _let it happen_."

"Danarius—"

" _Fuck_ him!" Val snarled impulsively.

Fenris _flinched_ , as if he'd been stricken.

Val froze.

"… _No_ ," she breathed out, a dawning horror and disgust building up inside her gut as she stared at him helplessly. "Oh, _Gods_ , Fenris, no… You—"

He tore himself away from the desk, walking quickly towards the exit. All the sudden, a lot things started to fall into place for Val. All the stupid little comments Danarius would make, leering at the bodyguard like he was in on some private joke. She felt sick at all the times she had seen Fenris glance away, stoically keeping a straight face. She barely managed to remember to slam the genealogy shut and take it with her as she raced out of the library after him. She looked both ways down the corridor, just catching sight of the gleam of his stark-white hair before he disappeared around a corner. She pursued him doggedly through the house, hoping to track him to wherever it was he disappeared to all the time…

She ended up chasing him up the stairs of the broken tower, startled birds fleeing in her wake from the holes in the walls. She hesitated before following him out to the parapets. They were in great disrepair, and rumor had it a slave had fallen to his death once… Nobody wanted to think about the possibility of it not being an accident… Val found Fenris sitting on the ledge, his legs dangling off the side of the building in a casual fashion; she got the feeling he was here a lot…

Quietly, she pulled her skirts up and took a seat next to him, staring down at the ground far below them. Then she looked at Fenris as he stared out over the city with a blank expression, and asked suddenly, "Do you ever feel like pushing me?"

He looked at her then with a momentarily startled expression, as if he'd just realized she was there. He looked at her, then down at the ground and back. Then he admitted, "The thought is morbidly tempting."

She grinned at him. "Do you think I could ever learn how to fly?"

"I wouldn't know," he said with some contempt. "I'm not a mage."

"I think if I could," she mused quietly, switching her gaze longingly to the sky, "I'd fly far away from here and take you with me."

"Where?" he muttered hollowly.

"Anywhere you want." She smiled. "I can't navigate worth a damn though—you'd have to direct me." She shrugged when he didn't answer. "Or, you know, we could just get lost. That works too."

"I'm already lost," he uttered bitterly.

"Me too," Val admitted.

They sat in silence for a while. Then Fenris spoke so quietly that she barely heard him, "He says he loves me."

Val turned her head to stare at him, eye burning with a fierce feeling she couldn't name. "Fenris…that man loves nothing but himself." She added disgustedly, "And _power_ … That's all this is about. Nothing good can come of this. Deep down…you know that."

His head hung low, longish locks obscuring his face from her as he murmured, "What am I supposed to do?"

She reached a hand out towards him but hesitated. Touching him was probably the last thing he wanted from her at this moment… She curled her fingers and began to shrink back, but paused when she saw a drop of something fall from his cheek. Her insides twisted, and her resolve broke, wanting to cry herself as she reached out and gently wiped his face free from tears. This wasn't right. Fenris wasn't supposed to cry. He was Fenris, goddammit.

"If he tries to touch you and you don't want it, you come to me," she told him with determination. "I will protect you."

His head snapped up and he eyed her in bewilderment. "What can you do?"

"Whatever I have to," she insisted. Still determined, she rubbed her thumb across his tanned cheek until nothing remained of the offending tears and she repeated resolutely, "I will protect you. I swear." Slowly, she took her hand away and promised, "I won't ever touch you again without your permission. I apologize."

"Why are you telling me this?" His eyes searched hers frantically for some kind of motive. "Why are you _doing_ this?"

"Because I'm _your_ friend," she declared. "Even if you're not mine."

She looked away from him and fell silent, staring down at her hands in her lap in reflection. She was inwardly fuming with righteous indignation. She never remembered feeling so angry in her life. She wanted to burn the whole city down. But more than anything, she wanted to see Danarius suffer. She wanted to see him hurt in unimaginable ways. Her eyes turned to cold marbles as she pictured it, unsmiling. Blood filled her visions of suffering. She'd wished death on people she didn't like before now, but nothing with actual hatred in it. Nothing with _intent_.

"How much money does it take to hire an assassin?" she asked idly. "There's a specific one I have in mind, but I'm not sure what his rates are… He's good, so I'm guessing they're pretty damn high."

"What do you know of _assassins_?" Fenris demanded snappishly.

"Well, there's the House of Repose in Orlais… And, of course, there's the Bards too. They're more into spying, but I'm sure they take on a mark every now and then…" she explained. "The assassin I'm thinking about is one of the Crows, in Antiva. I actually know a lot about him… Maybe I could blackmail him into doing it pro bono." She chewed on her lip in thought. "Could be risky though…"

"You're talking about putting out a hit on Danarius—to my face," he stated bluntly. "Please remember my job description."

"Oh." She blinked at the bodyguard owlishly. "Right." She sighed. "That's going to be a problem…" She thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, you know what they say…" She concluded darkly with, "If you want something done right, you gotta do it _yourself_ …" When he stared at her, wide eyed, she insisted, "I told you, I'll do whatever I have to if it's to protect you. I'm not screwing around. If he tries to hurt you, I'll fucking kill him—I swear to god, Fenris." She shook her head. "This has to stop."

"Killing him won't solve anything," he told her frantically. "It'll just make matters worse—everything will go to Hadrianna, and she's just as…as…" He swallowed and looked at her heatedly. "She'll do horrible things to you…"

"Where the hell is Hadrianna anyway?" Val asked suddenly. "I haven't seen her once."

"She's due back in a couple weeks…" He grimaced. "Unfortunately…" He eyed her closely. "I don't think you should kill anyone… It's not for you."

"I could do it," she insisted. "I _want_ to do it. I hate him."

"Talk to me after you clear your head," he spoke dryly. "Then tell me that again."

"I'm not a stupid kid, Fenris," she grated out petulantly. "I'm being serious."

"How are you going to do it?" he shot at her.

She blinked. "I don't know… Not with magic, obviously. I'm no match." She frowned. "Something he won't expect… Poison, maybe?"

"What are you going to do with the body afterwards?"

She frowned again. Then an idea struck her. "Take it through the catacombs! And then maybe dump it out in the wild. Wolves, or something nastier will get to the corpse eventually… Or in water! No one will even recognize him if they find the body then. Plus, hardly anyone cares about dead bodies lying around here, I've noticed."

He shook his head. "You're being unreasonable. They'll find out it was you."

"Are _you_ going to tell on me?" she asked him again.

"They'll find out." He continued. "Hadrianna will get the estate, and you. She'd try to pin the murder on you anyway—she hates you."

"Well if _you're_ so smart, why don't _you_ do it!?" she demanded, throwing up her arms in exasperation.

He just stared at her with something close to horror.

" _Okay_ ," Val conceded hurriedly, "Okay… Never mind. Just _calm down_ ," she placated soothingly. "We're not killing anybody! There. Happy?"

He nodded.

She sighed at the sight of him and professed intensely, "Even if I _can't_ kill him, I will still protect you. He won't touch you as long as I am with you. You have my word."

He didn't answer at first, searching her face again before looking away and they both sat for a while in silence. Val was watching the sun set over the Minrathous city skyline when she felt him reach over and take her hand. "…You have my permission."

Smiling softly, she laced her fingers through his and squeezed. "Thank you."

* * *

 **More righteous!angry!Val. Blekch...**

 **Anyway, the name of the chapter is the poem A Poison Tree by William Blake.**

 **I was angry with my friend:**  
 **I told my wrath, my wrath did end.**  
 **I was angry with my foe:**  
 **I told it not, my wrath did grow.**

 **And I waterd it in fears**  
 **Night & morning with my tears;**  
 **And I sunned it with smiles,**  
 **And with soft deceitful wiles.**

 **And it grew both day and night,**  
 **Till it bore an apple bright.**  
 **And my foe beheld it shine,**  
 **And he knew that it was mine,**

 **And into my garden stole,**  
 **When the night had veiled the pole;**  
 **In the morning glad I see**  
 **My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.**


End file.
